


On the Mountain High

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Thorin Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on a tumblr prompt from brashleyashley: Thorin has one of those days where the manpain is burning him up inside, and Dwalin tries snuggling it out of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Mountain High

It’s an odd contradiction, to be sure; most dwarves would not climb a tree or a horse if they were paid, and yet there are no people more comfortable at the very peak of a mountain than they. Dwalin climbs up the old steps of Belegost with care and surety, feeling for any weaknesses in the stone, and is not surprised to find the person he seeks standing there, leaning against the battlements and staring out across the hills and plains of the west. The mountain wind has pinked his cheeks and tangled his hair.

“Your sister’s sent me. She didn’t know where you went.”

“Doesn’t she have children she ought to be worrying about?” Thorin says, his voice rough as the scrape of stone.

Dwalin approaches him and wraps an arm around his back. He rests his chin on Thorin’s shoulder, the furs of his cloak tickling his chin. Thorin leans into his touch, his arm circling Dwalin’s waist in turn and even the barest brush of skin against skin is cold. How long has Thorin been up here, he wonders.

“Someone ought to worry about you, shouldn’t they?”

Thorin doesn’t answer. Dwalin looks out over the vista before them--the sun has already crossed over the mountains behind them, and long shadows paint the earth. He realizes that they face too far south for Thorin to be thinking of the Lonely Mountain. Khazad-Dûm, then. Azanulbizar. He sighs. The breath rattles through his ribs and he squeezes Thorin tighter to keep himself here and now.

“Does it matter to anyone else?” Thorin asks suddenly, vehemence and despair in his voice, and Dwalin kisses his neck. “Gundabad, Khazad-Dûm, Erebor... does anyone care?”

“Not as much as you,” Dwalin says because there’s no denying the truth. “You look towards your kingdom, and they look to their king.”

“I’m _tired_.”

He whispers the words against the folds of Dwalin’s cloak and the wind has a cruel bite. They bury themselves in the embrace, seeking warmth and comfort they can’t admit that they need. Warmth kindles in his heart, as it always does when he takes a moment to appreciate the surety in their Maker's work, the way their arms have been forged to find contours of their bodies where they can rest. His fingers touch Thorin’s chin, tilt his face up the slightest angle for a kiss. He feels the sigh of breath and the wiry brush of his beard.

“Come down from the cold,” Dwalin grunts. “Dís and Bala’ll have supper on, you can see the boys... better days will come.”

Thorin nods, and he can feel the barest motion as his lips turn up in a sad smile. But for several long moments they remain, still and weary as the stones.


End file.
